


Covered In You

by codenametargeter



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Azure Moon Route, Established Relationship, Ingrid did not sign up for this, M/M, Married Dimilix, Post-War, very fake royal titles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29611941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codenametargeter/pseuds/codenametargeter
Summary: Felix Fraldarius has had a problem ever since he agreed to marry the king two months ago. And stupid young Lord Charon just made it worse. Way worse.Written for Dimilix Week 2021, Day 7: Marriage
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 6
Kudos: 62





	Covered In You

**Author's Note:**

> Please just pretend I am not calendar challenge and posted this yesterday on the appropriate day. 
> 
> Is this the spiritual sister to [And Baby, For You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24704473)? Maybe. Possibly. You can't prove anything. (Yes it is.)

Felix Fraldarius has had a problem ever since he lost the last iota of his good sense and agreed to marry the king two months ago.

The problem isn’t their marriage; far from it. He’s still inclined to think the whole thing is ridiculous. There was absolutely nothing wrong with how things had been between them. They knew they loved each other and that had been enough or at least it had been until Dimitri had blurted out “marry me” in bed one night and Felix, like an absolute besotted fool, had said yes. But then he’d said yes again in the light of day and that was that. He still flushes every time Dimitri looks at him and says the words “my husband” so damn earnestly.

One of his problems  _ was _ the wedding itself which had been a headache and a half because apparently there had to be protocol and etiquette involved and the king of Fódlan couldn’t just marry his advisor without pomp and circumstance. Honestly, neither of them had been thrilled about that part since they both thought the money was better spent on Fódlan itself but they’d lost that fight. But that’s all in the past now and therefore can’t be considered a current problem. 

It’s not that he can barely look at Dimitri’s golden wedding band without thinking of how Dimitri had taken Felix's left hand in his own left hand and pressed them firmly against the pillows above Felix’s head. “Yours yours yours,” Felix had chanted like a prayer as Dimitri had fucked him fast and hard in their marriage bed, their shining new wedding bands pressed against each other. “Always yours,” Dimitri had whispered back, lips brushing against his ear. 

It’s not even that Dimitri is shameless about how he’s taken to grabbing Felix’s hand and pulling him in close for a kiss when they are in full view of others. These aren’t chaste pecks on the cheek or his lips either. These are kisses that make him want to melt against his husband’s broad chest and that threaten to draw embarrassing sounds out of him that he’d rather die than let anyone but Dimitri hear. 

No, the problem is that everyone seems to be tripping over themselves because they don’t know what to call him anymore and it’s getting to be ridiculous. 

It had been easy before or at least relatively so. People had called him “Your Grace” or “Duke Fraldarius” or even a simpler although less accurate, “milord” or, in the case of Ingrid, an indignant “Felix!” If Felix had had it his way, things would have stayed the same but no. Oh no. Dimitri had insisted on putting a coronet on his head too and making him rule alongside him. 

“I already do that,” Felix had protested, looking at the silver circlet like it was a snake that might bite him. “I’m your advisor.” 

“And now you’re my advisor  _ and  _ my consort,” Dimitri said with a poorly concealed smile, extending the circlet towards him again. 

“His Majesty is right, Your Highness,” said the master of protocol, not looking in the least bit apologetic. “You’re not a mere duke anymore. A crown in addition to the title of royal consort is traditional. In your case, prince consort is most appropriate.”

“We united the entire stupid continent. Who cares about traditional or appropriate?” 

He’d been overruled. 

So now Felix sits at Dimitri’s left hand instead of his right hand and sometimes wears this really stupid looking crown that would be annoying in a fight and he has to grit his teeth and bear it as people can’t seem to decide if they’re supposed to call him Your Highness or Your Grace or if he’s a Prince or a Duke when  _ really _ he’d be just fine being none of those things. It’s all stupid.

And then it gets stupider. 

“I have to agree with His Grace here,” says the young Lord Marcus of House Charon in the midst of a council meeting. Immediately, he flushes pink. “I mean, His Highness the duke consort. I mean--”

Sylvain lasts precisely three seconds before bursting out into uproarious laughter. 

Dimitri gallantly tries to help by saying, “There’s no need to be hung up on titles here, Lord Charon,” but it’s too late. More or less the entire room is laughing, most of them more quietly than Sylvain. 

It is unclear who wants to die from mortification more in that moment: Felix or Marcus. 

After two weeks of absolute misery as the words ‘duke consort’ spread through the palace, Felix switches from ‘wanting to die’ to ‘wanting to do violence’. More than usual.

“You can’t challenge Marcus Charon to a duel,” Ingrid says for the third time in as many minutes. They’d both spent the morning in the throne room as Dimitri held court and Felix had spent the majority of it having to grit his teeth and ignore the whispers and sounds of amusement anytime anyone addressed him. It hadn’t helped that Charon had been there which was also why Ingrid had steered Felix in the direction of his office afterwards instead of letting him go after him. 

“Who’s going to stop me?” Felix demands. “You?”

She nods. “Yes. And also His Majesty.” 

“Dimitri doesn’t get a say in this,” he says petulantly.

“He’s the king.”

“So?” 

Ingrid stares at him and so he stares at her right back until finally, she sighs and says, “Come on. Let’s go spar.” 

“I have work to do.” He doesn’t sound convincing even to his own ears. Probably because it just might be the first time he’s ever made an excuse to get out of sparring.

They get a few stares when Ingrid grabs him by the arm and bodily drags him out of his office but only one person starts to say, “Your Grace, are you--” before they’re hushed by the person beside them. For some reason, that just bothers him even more. 

The training field is occupied when they arrive, which isn’t unexpected but does add to Felix’s ever growing list of irrational irritations. At least a few of the soldiers present take one look at his stony face and move away, clearing a spot. Ingrid nudges him in the ribs with a sharp elbow. “Come on. Stretch, stupid.” 

“You’re stupid,” he mutters the juvenile insult back and gets another elbow to the ribs for it. “Ow!” 

“If Sylvain hadn’t headed home yesterday, I’d go dump you on him instead,” Ingrid says as she reaches with her left arm down to her right toe and then repeats the process with her opposite limbs. 

Felix mimics her movements not intentionally but rather because they were trained by many of the same masters who’d taught them the same drills and routines. “Could’ve just left me in my office.” 

“Should’ve.” 

Despite himself, Ingrid’s even, matter of fact tone is enough to draw a snort out of Felix and they complete the rest of their warm ups in slightly more companionable silence. Ingrid selects a lance from the rack of training weapons for herself and then tosses him a sword, also picked with care. He hefts it in his hand for a moment, testing the weight and balance. As far as training swords go, it’s not bad. 

When he looks back up again, Ingrid’s staring at him with the barest hint of amusement. “Does it meet your standards, Your Highness?” 

Just for that, Felix lunges forward and starts their sparring match without any warning. Ingrid raises her lance and neatly blocks it. There’s a shocked murmur that goes through the training yard but it pays it no mind. He knew Ingrid would counter it. She’s not as good as him with a sword but she’s damn good with the lance even with both feet on solid ground. 

They spar together a lot and know most of each other’s moves and so it’s less a proper fight than another training match. But at the same time, it’s what Felix needs right now since everyone keeps telling him he can’t duel who he actually wants. Come to think of it, that’s been a thing ever since he and Dimitri announced their engagement which is a problem since the last time he checked, he’s still the King’s Shield and fighting duels for him is part of his damn job. 

By silent agreement, they go to first touch and fight three bouts. Ingrid takes the first, using the longer reach of her lance to her advantage. Felix takes the second thanks to a flurry of blows that break through her defenses. The third bout ends with both of them knocking each other to the ground and then staying there once they realize neither of them feel the need to grapple to prove anything. 

“Draw?” Ingrid asks.

Felix nods. “Draw,” and then lets his head drop back to rest upon the ground. It feels nice to just sprawl there. It’s a nice day by Faerghus’s standards and if he stares up at the sky, he can pretend like none of the last few weeks have happened. Ingrid rises just enough to grab a canteen before dropping back down to sit beside him. “Why?” Felix asks, not looking at her. It’s not much of a question but he doesn’t need to say more. 

Ingrid takes a long drink of water before passing the skin to him. “Better me than someone else who isn’t fine with hitting you right back.” 

He snorts. Ingrid’s never had a problem with that. He pushes himself up onto one elbow so he won’t choke before taking a sip of water too. “If you’re going to lecture me next--”

“No lecture,” Ingrid cut him off. “Well. Maybe a tiny lecture.”

“Ugh.” 

She offers him no mercy. “Stomping around and glaring at everyone isn’t going to make this better. You’re just making everyone else in the palace miserable.” 

Felix says, “If Dimitri wanted a nice, smiling wife who everyone would love and adore, he shouldn’t have married me.” 

“If he wanted a wife, he wouldn’t have married you.”

“You sound like Sylvain.”

Ingrid shrugs. “He’s right sometimes.”

Felix’s only response is to swipe the water back for another drink before returning it. She isn’t wrong but it’s not like he’s going to admit that. 

Sighing, Ingrid clambers to her feet. “I love you both very much but my own wife would like to steal me back eventually from all this sparring with you and listening to Dimitri worry all the time.” 

He frowns, sitting up all the way. “What’s that supposed to mean?   


“Just talk to your husband, Felix,” Ingrid says before turning the canteen over and dumping the remnants of the water on his head. She’s gone before he can even start to sputter indignantly. 

It’s probably a good thing he never really expected to get any more respect from his friends just because he married the king of all of Fódlan. At least no one else in the training yard is bold enough to meet his eyes or even whisper about him as he returns both training weapons to the rack and stalks back towards the palace. 

He takes refuge in his office, finding a handkerchief stuffed in the bottom of one of his drawers to somewhat dry his hair. There’s nothing to be done about his shirt except to sit closer by the fireplace and hope it dries quickly which it should, given how little was actually left in the canteen. 

By the time Felix notices his shirt is dry again, he has no idea how much time has passed because he’s gotten through all of two papers from the giant pile of documents that seems to permanently live on his desk. No matter how many he gets through, there never seems to be less but at the very least, he knows he should be getting at least something done. 

He lets out a sound of disgust as he realizes that Ingrid was right. He hates it when that happens.

If nothing else, his prince consort status means that Felix takes a moment to make sure he doesn’t look like a complete mess before leaving his office and walking the short distance over to the king’s.

“Is anyone in there with him?” he asks the guards.

One of them shakes his head. “No, Your Highness.” 

“We’re not to be disturbed,” Felix says with a curt nod as one of them opens the door for him. Honestly, they both probably deserve a raise for how neither of them so much as smirks especially because he knows every single one of the guards has overheard him and Dimitri enjoying themselves a little too much inside this very office at least once. He’s not proud of it but also he knows better than to try and pretend like it won’t happen again. 

Dimitri looks up as the door opens. “Felix, my love! I did not think I’d see you again before dinner.” 

He drops gracelessly into his usual seat beside the large desk. “Wasn’t getting any work done.” 

“Is there anything in particular that is bothering you?” Dimitri’s voice stays even and his expression mostly neutral as he asks the question but it is the puppy dog look in his remaining blue eye that gives him away. 

Felix frowns, immediately suspicious. “Did you put Ingrid up to this?” 

Now they’re both frowning. “Up to what?”

“Nothing.” Except, no. It’s not nothing and so, somewhat reluctantly, Felix says, “Ingrid. She said I should talk to you. About.” 

“What Marcus Charon said?” Dimitri finishes for him. Felix nods jerkily. “It will fade away soon enough.”

“Will it?” The words slip from Felix’s lips before he can stop them.

“It will,” Dimitri says as he reaches out to take his hand, running a thumb over his knuckles. “I wish you were not bothered so by all of this.”

He looks away. “No one likes being mocked.” 

“Oh Felix,” Dimitri says, “no one is mocking you. Well, perhaps some of our dear friends found amusement from young Lord Charon’s error but he is the one bearing the brunt of his error.” 

Mouth dry, he opens his mouth and then shuts it and then does it again before he manages the words. “I don’t like that this bothers me. That it affects you too.” 

He raises Felix’s hand to press a kiss to it. “You’re my husband. Of course, I do not wish to see you unhappy.” 

Felix makes a face just like he always does when Dimitri says something so sappy which just makes Dimitri smile all the broader. “I said it bothers me, not that it makes me unhappy.” 

Dimitri releases his hand and sits back in his chair, resting his chin on one hand. “Maybe we should ask the master of protocol to offer clarification as to your proper title and such. When we aren’t present, of course. I know sitting through something like that isn’t something you’d enjoy.” 

He’s right. He wouldn’t. It’s been enough of an adjustment for Felix to sit beside Dimitri in a throne instead of standing nearby to offer his counsel. The only time Felix doesn’t mind being the one everyone is looking at is when he’s fighting any sort of match with a sword in his hand. When he’s fighting, he’s too busy to notice that people are staring. And yet… he glances up at Dimitri and remembers why he said yes. Twice. Love, it seems, has made him a besotted fool. And he suddenly knows why he’s been bothered by all of this.

“Am I still your shield?”

It’s Dimitri’s turn to be surprised. “What?”

“Your shield,” Felix repeats. “Am I still your shield?” 

“That’s always been a metaphorical title…”

“Just answer the question.”

“I don’t see why you wouldn’t be?” Dimitri leans forward again. “What does this have to do with Charon’s confusion?” 

Felix curls one hand tightly around the chair’s arm. “I don’t want to be seen as just your… consort.” 

In an instant Dimitri has him in his arms. “Felix, anyone who knows you could never think of you as ‘just’ anything. Consort is only a title. You hold many. You are my cherished husband, my treasured advisor, and the duke of Fraldarius in your own right.” 

He’s blushing now. There’s no denying that. “Dimitri, don’t.” 

Apparently there’s no stopping him now. “The love of my life and the shield of this realm and anyone who underestimates you does so at their own risk.”

“If I kiss you, will you stop?” Felix asks and then doesn’t wait for an answer and rises up on his toes to kiss him anyways. It’s only a fraction of a second before Dimitri kisses him back, pulling him close unnecessarily as that’s exactly where Felix wishes to be. This is why he’s glad he thought to tell the guards to not let anyone else in. This isn’t anyone else’s business… especially not when they move towards the desk and lets Dimitri lift him up to sit on it, putting their heads at somewhat more equal height. It’s their own business and if he wants to kiss his husband in the middle of the day, he’s going to. When they finally pull apart, Felix says, “You’re absurd, do you know that?”

“You tell me as much often,” Dimitri says, fondly brushing an errant strand of hair from Felix’s face. “But I hardly think it absurd to want us both to be happy.”

Felix clears his throat, glancing away for a moment. “Ingrid said you were worrying.”

It’s Dimitri’s time to turn slightly pink. “That is perhaps a bit of an overstatement…” Felix just gives him a disbelieving look. “Or perhaps not. I just wish I knew what could help here.” 

Clarity hits him like a Thoron spell to the chest. “Maybe I don’t want to be a prince.”

“What?’ Dimitri says, starting to look crestfallen as he shrinks back.

Felix grabs his wrists and twines his legs around Dimitri’s waist so he can’t. “Not like that. I mean, maybe that idiot was right. You said it yourself: I’m still the duke of Fraldarius and I am your consort. And I still think they’re talking about you when they say prince.” 

Dimitri blinks, something that still looks strange. “Are you saying that you… want to be known as my duke consort?” 

“Why not?” Felix says fiercely. He’s starting to like the idea more and more despite its irritating origins. 

“We’d have to ask the master of protocol whether or not there’s precedent.” 

“You’re the king, Dimitri. Pretty sure you can make your own husband’s title whatever you want.” 

“Well, yes, but I’d prefer not to upset him anymore than strictly necessary…” 

Felix kisses him again because that seems easier. Dimitri doesn’t seem to object. 

“They might still call you Your Highness, you know,” Dimitri murmurs in his ear between soft kisses. 

Curling his fingers around Dimitri’s blond locks, Felix says, “As long as it’s because it’s what we want, I can deal.” 

“Mm,” Dimitri hums, moving his attentions slightly further downwards as he plays with the fastenings of Felix’s shirt. “We can talk to the master of protocol today.”

That’s a less good idea. “We’re busy. How about tomorrow?” 

He takes Dimitri’s kisses as a sign of his agreement.

Felix Fraldarius has had a problem for the last few weeks but somehow, it’s also become the answer to that very same problem. Funny how that works out.


End file.
